


Happy Little Trees

by flashlighted



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Happy Ending, I know I haven't updated in forever but I promise I am working on an update, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Indulgent, Steve is very bi and Bucky is v gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashlighted/pseuds/flashlighted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a bit obsessed with watching Bob Ross videos. Steve is also a bit obsessed with Bucky Barnes, art shop employee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beauty Is Everywhere

_“We’d like to thank you for tuning in, and God bless”_

Steve blinks at his computer screen, having finished the 16th episode of his _Bob Ross: Beauty is Everywhere_ marathon. Netflix had put up the whole first season and he had taken the whole day off from his boring government job of files and answering phones to dedicate it to Bob. He hits the pause button to stop the automatic play of episode 17, which promised ‘weathered old barns’ and ‘deep blue skies’ and stretches his thin arms above his head. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is getting a little low in the sky, and he knows he should take a break from his pal Bob and make something to eat, but spending the whole day curled in bed with his laptop has made him too lazy. He briefly courts the idea of ordering in, but throws it out because he knows he’ll regret it the next day. He can do better; he’ll walk to the Chinese place two blocks down and three over and pick it up himself.

He hauls his ass out of bed, still wearing the sweats and white t-shirt he had slept in the night before. He pairs them with a faded red sweater that’s coated in basically every kind of paint that exists on earth, and several that one of his weird coworkers insists were from ‘Asgard’, whatever the hell that was. Probably some fancy art store in Manhattan that Steve couldn’t even afford to breathe in. He shoves his feet in his shoes while placing an order on the phone because hey, his multitasking skills are excellent. He doesn’t bother to lock the doors to his apartment, because there’s nothing worth stealing anyway, unless some poor burglar thought that amatuer art was valuable. 

When Steve gets to the Chinese restaurant, he’s told his order isn’t ready, but it’s no big deal, he’ll just kill 15 minutes in the art store two shops down the road. He’s only been in there once or twice, and could do with exploring it and all the products they carried that he couldn’t afford on his current paycheck. 

The store is surprisingly cozy, and very empty, which Steve supposes is probably typical for dinnertime on a Wednesday. For such a small shop they have really, really good selection, and Steve finds himself picking up a few items he knows he needs, but can’t really afford. After some difficult decision making he decides to pick up the gloss polymer and gesso he needs, figuring he’ll skip lunch for the rest of the week to even out his budget. As he brings his 5’3” frame up to the cash, he sees the cashier and stops in his tracks. The cashier is leaning against the counter, flipping through a catalogue idly, and yeah, just happens to be the most gorgeous man Steve has ever seen in his entire life. The way the fading light is filtering through the window illuminates the cashiers chestnut hair and further defines his jaw and cheekbones. Steve’s hands itch to whip out a sketchbook and start drawing him right there and then. He shakes his head at the absurdity of himself and steps up to the counter.

“Hey,” he says, placing his items down to be scanned. The cashier puts down his catalogue with a sigh, revealing a name tag that has ‘James’ scratched out with ‘Bucky’ written in red underneath pinned onto his shirt. 

“Find everything alright?” Bucky asks in a disinterested tone.

“Yeah! This store is really amazing,” Steve says enthusiastically, immediately regretting the decision when Bucky looks at him long and hard. Steve can feel Bucky’s eyes scraping over him and his paint-stained sweater, and finding him inadequate. Steve wishes that he’d bothered to get dressed like a regular human being who didn’t use sick days to marathon Bob Ross shows.

“Well,” Bucky says, like he could not care any less, “That’s just great. Your total is 32 dollars and 37 cents.” Steve wishes he could sink right through the floor, and meekly hands over two twenty dollar bills, hating the feeling of the bills leaving his hands. He really needs to work on his impulse spending, or work on getting raise. 

Bucky hands him back his change with a bored expression as the receipt prints slowly. He tears it off the second it’s done printing, “Receipt in the bag okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” Steve replies. He takes the bag and practically runs out of the store and over to the Chinese place. _Nice going, Rogers_ , he thinks as he shells out an additional 13 dollars and 7 cents for dinner, _Real stand up job there, Steve._

***

After five more hours of therapeutic Bob Ross streaming, Steve has completed the series, his Chinese food, and a messy sketch of Bucky the cashier. He plugs his crappy smartphone into the charger and closes his laptop that still has the credits from _The Beauty of Painting_ paused on the screen and curls into a ball to sleep.

***

More than a week passes after the events in the art supply shop, which Steve never plans on visiting ever again, when he realizes his bottle of matte varnish is completely dried out, with no hopes of salvaging it. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal and he’d just pick some up later, but he’s planning to submit this painting in a contest, and he needs to get it mailed in two days, and it needed 24 hours to dry.

Again, not a big deal, except for the fact that he would be caught in the Friday night rush-hour traffic if he went to his usual art store. He cusses under his breath before sliding out of his painting sweater and into a grey cardigan his ex, Peggy, had given him for Christmas two years previously.

He counts out 15 dollars, hoping that the store will carry the brand of varnish he uses; the only one he trusts to not ruin his hard work. He walks the two blocks down and three over to the shop, cursing his inability to properly tighten the lids on his art supplies the entire way there.

He slips into the store, the bell chiming too loudly in the silent shop. Steve takes a moment to consider that it was really nice to have the store to himself, yet again, despite the fact he was afraid of the staff. The very, _very_ handsome staff. Steve zeros in on what he needs and pulls himself up to the cash without even glancing around at whatever deals the store has going on at the moment. There’s a moment of pride until Steve realizes that Bucky is manning the cash register again, and he shrinks a little. Or as much as his slight frame will allow.

“Find everything alright?” Bucky asks, his tone a touch warmer than it had been on the previous trip.

“Yep,” Steve said quickly, rocking a little on his heels in anticipation of leaving the store as quickly as possible and getting back to his apartment to finish the piece.

“Alright. Your total is is 11 dollars and 27 cents,” Bucky says, sounding a little deflated. Steve’s attention is too invested in counting out the correct amount of quarters and pennies to notice. He hands over the pile of coinage a little sheepishly. Bucky takes one look at it and throws it into the till without bothering to count it. “Have a good night.”

“Yeah, uh, you too,” Steve says, taking his bottle off the counter and making a beeline straight for the exit.

***

The next few weeks are spent in a state of anticipation; Steve has never applied for any kind of contest really. He wasn’t able to do anything that required physical prowess. With all his allergies, poor circulation, and his asthma, it was best if he just sat out when it came to anything more strenuous than walking. Sports of all kinds were out, and that was 95% of any and all contest types. Sure, he’d longingly looked at other kinds of art competitions, but he’d never submitted anything to them. 

Art was more of a hobby for him; a life consuming, money-gobbling, attention-hogging hobby.

But he’d seen the prompt for this contest, and he’d instantly connected with it. To commemorate the 75th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbour, artists of all skills and styles were invited to create pieces of art using any mediums and of any size, as part of a government ceremony. Steve had heard about it at work, some flyer half-heartedly pinned to a bulletin board. He'd had an idea, of splashes of rich colours, collages of vintage newspapers and memorabilia, and just had to create the piece he saw in his mind’s eye. He’d tried to avoid it, but thoughts of it wouldn’t leave him alone, and he’d given in. Steve had spent more money on the piece, hunting up things on Craigslist and eBay, than he had on the rest of the pieces he had completed that year, combined.

He really wanted to win, but he was proud of the piece regardless, and he would be proud to hang it in his scruffy apartment in Brooklyn, even if he was the only one who ever got to see it. _Watershed_ he’d called it, the name had come to him the moment he’d signed _S.G Rogers_ in the bottom left hand corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes @ the abrupt ending whoops


	2. Cliffside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not American this is a mess

Weeks pass, and then months, and slowly Steve loses all hope of hearing back from the contest; he just hopes they ship Watershed back to him in one piece. In a perfect world, it’d be free of charge, too. A nice ‘Hey, you lost, but you weren’t half bad really’. He moves on, gets a slight pay raise and some nicer clothes to celebrate it. He keeps over-spending on art supplies, but hey; seasons change but people don’t, and he could afford it a little bit more now. It made the soul-sucking secretary work a little more tolerable. 

On the way home from the office one day Steve decides to stop into the little art store and get some more brush cleaner; he didn’t really need it but he felt the need to pop into the store and soak up the calming atmosphere before it was inevitably ruined by Bucky the cashier and his scariness. Besides, Steve reasons, it wouldn’t hurt to check on the store’s inventory again and see if they had any products his go-to store didn’t.

For the first time since he’d started visiting the store, Steve wasn’t the only customer. There was a woman dressed in loose sweats and a big shirt, which made Steve in his blue suit with briefcase in hand feel very overdressed. He just couldn’t win with this place.

She was standing with Bucky across the store, talking quietly. Steve noticed Bucky was looking more scruffy than when he’d last seen him; stubble darkening his jaw, and hair almost long enough to brush his shoulders. Again Steve feels an urge to draw him, but stifles it and began to browse idly. Finally he makes his way over to where Bucky and the woman stood in front of a magazine rack, which was filled with current issues, and back issues and everything in between. They replaced the one they were holding in the rack and picked up another one. Steve caught a glimpse of the cover, as they flipped past to browse the articles, and he recognizes it as the magazine that had held the contest he had entered months before. They finally land on the article about the contest, and Steve only has a brief moment to think about how creepy he’s being, seeing how he’s looking over two stranger’s shoulders, but then his breath catches in his throat when he sees the title of the article and the accompanying image.

Who Is S.G Rogers? the article title reads, and next to it is an HD picture of Watershed hanging on a wall in an art gallery somewhere.

“Hey, uh,” Steve says, feeling his palms start to sweat, “Could I see that magazine when you two are done?”

“Sure thing,” the woman says with a smile, looking up from her article. Bucky gives him an odd look before saying, “There’s more copies on the rack, you don’t have to wait.”

Steve’s face flushes almost instantaneously, “Yeah, yeah of course.” With shaking hands he picks up the magazine and flips to the article and reads through it like he’s in high school again, cramming for an exam.

He skims through the article, heart beating so fast he thinks he might just keel over dead. The article is full of praise and critiques for Watershed, and wonderment over who S.G. Rogers could possibly be. The entire time while Steve reads the article, all he can think is ‘Oh, geez, that’s me’. When he’s reached the final paragraph, he feels his briefcase slip out of his sweaty palm and hit the floor with a heavy thunk, but he’s too stunned to care. ‘S.G. Rogers is the winner of the Pearl Harbour Commemoration contest. If anyone knows of his/her whereabouts, it would be greatly appreciated if they would share the information with us, so we can alert him/her to his/her achievement. All attempts to contact S.G. Rogers have been unsuccessful at this time.”

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks roughly but not unkindly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve says dreamily, still looking at the article in disbelief, “It’s just. I’m S.G Rogers.”

“Woah, what?” Bucky looks up abruptly at Steve, eyes wide. Instead of replying, Steve reaches into the pocket of his suit pants and pulls out his crappy smartphone. His hands are shaking so bad that he fumbles the password twice. He scrolls through his photos;a mix of pictures of nature and people for references and terrible selfies, before pulling up a picture of himself in front of the massive canvas, giving the camera a thumbs up. He’d set it up on a shelf on a timer, so as to fit the whole canvas in the frame. He shows Bucky and his female companion the picture silently.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky says so quietly it’s almost a sigh, “You _are_ S.G Rogers.”

***

The small blonde guy, S.G Rogers or whatever, is shaking so bad that Bucky decides to pull him back into the staff-only area of the store and sit him down with a mug of strong black coffee. The guy looked like one of those people that are allergic to even the idea of milk- all pale and whatever- and besides, Bucky’s almost 100% sure the milk in the staff fridge went bad the week before.

The guy’s just sitting there and Bucky really has no idea what he’s supposed to do with him. He knows he’s been in the store a few times, and Bucky remembers the lingering regret he had had about being so short with Rogers. It had been a bad few weeks, expensive medical bills for his ill sister, and barely meeting minimum payments on basically everything Bucky had a tentative ownership over. Things were still a little touch and go, but looking up. He felt bad about how he’d treated Rogers; he’d meant to say something about it to him on his next visit, but a wrench had seriously been thrown in the plan. Now he’d just think Bucky was being nice because he was famous. 

“So,” Bucky says, tapping the sides of his own mug of coffee as they sat at a rickety table coated in layers of paints and inks and glosses, “Are you gonna call the magazine?”

“Oh,” Rogers says, looking up from his hands, which he appeared to have been studying quite extensively. “I guess I should.” Bucky hums in agreement, and the room falls silent again.

After another long pause, Bucky speaks up again, “Why didn’t you contact them earlier? They must have sent you a letter or called or something?”

“I didn’t get anything. Maybe it got lost in the mail,” Rogers says, relaxing a little and taking a sip of his coffee. "Maybe I wrote my number down wrong."

“The postal services are really terrible,” Bucky agrees, looking back down at his coffee like it will give him the answers to escaping the awkwardness of the situation. The coffee just sits there, and Bucky sighs quietly. He pushes up the sleeves on his shirt, and he notices Rogers eyes catch on the sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. Bucky smiles a bit at that; he’s proud of his tattoos, and then realizes that he doesn’t even know this guy’s name.

“So ,what does the S in _S.G. Rogers_ stand for?” Bucky asks casually, passing his coffee mug back and forth between his palms.

“Steve,” the guy, Steve, replies with a small nod.

“Cool, Steve. I’m James, but everyone calls me Bucky. It’s cool to meet you,” Bucky extends his hand across the table, jostling it slightly. Steve gives him a weird look, like he knows Bucky recognizes him, but takes his hand and shakes it once. Bucky notes a bit of paint under Steve’s thumb nail and likes the contrast between it and his well-cut suit.

“Thanks for the coffee, Bucky,” Steve says a little hesitantly, “I, uh, I’m gonna head back home now.” 

“No problem, Steve,” Bucky says, “Congrats on the win, man.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve says and ducks his head a little in acknowledgement, or embarrassment, Bucky isn't sure which, and then makes his way out of the staff-only area.

The moment Bucky hears the door that separates the break/storage area from the store click closed, he drops his head to the tabletop with a loud thud. He turns his head and yells wordlessly into the crook of his arm for two seconds, then sits back up and adjusts himself. He, James Buchanan Barnes, is an idiot, he decides. With that finalized, he gets up and goes back out on the floor of the store to finish his shift.

***

“Hey Becks,” Bucky says as opens the door to his apartment. Well, _their_ apartment, since his sister had moved in with him, post chemo. It kind of made him feel like they were kids again, if he forgot the lingering fear of death.

“Hey kiddo,” she says with a smirk from the couch where she’s lying watching yet another dumb show about wedding dresses. Bucky rolls his eyes and goes to the kitchen sink to wash off ink from a pen that exploded while he was drawing with it at work. The store had been dead; sometimes it felt like the store was always dead. Bucky knew that business would pick up with the turn of summer to fall, as art students belatedly realized they lacked everything they needed. “How was work?”

“It was weird,” Bucky says, drying his hands on a dish towel, “Some guy came in and found out he won a contest for this really prominent art magazine. I thought he was gonna faint, actually.”

“Aww,” Becka says, smirk deepening into a dimpled smile, “Was he cute?”

“Why do you always ask that,” Bucky laughs, “He could’ve been fifty-five and bald.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t complain if you decided you wanted a sugar daddy. I’d probably get to see more of you,” She shoots back. “Was he cute?”

Bucky raises his hands in defeat, “Yes, Becka. He was cute.”

“Ooh; cute _and_ talented. He sounds like a catch,” Becka winks, and Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he’s momentarily worried they’ll get stuck. Pretty much since their teen years when Bucky had come out, Becka had tried to set him up with any and all boys. It was hit or miss; with a high inclination to the ‘miss’ portion. The fact that she wasn’t able to actually go out and see the boys in question did not deter her. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, sitting down on the couch, on top of Becka’s feet, “Maybe in my next life.” Becka squawks, and extracts her feet before turning her attention back to the television, where a woman is encased in a dress the size of Texas.

“That thing is terrible,” Bucky comments, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “It’s doing nothing for her.” Becka kicks him once and laughs, and Bucky lets a crooked smile stretch across his face. There’s a scene change to yet another dress, and Bucky lifts his hand to point at the screen, his smile morphed into a shit-eating grin.

“See- look! That’s much better,” Becka hits him again, and he laughs at her.

“Let me watch in peace, you butt,” She says, pulling her foot back to kick Bucky again.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky relents, standing up from the couch, still laughing a little, “I’m going to make supper.” Becka kicks him in the ass as he starts to walk away, and he laughs again before opening the fridge to survey its contents.


	3. Wilderness Cabin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to make these chapters longer I just get too excited by the content to wait whoops

Another day, another shift, Bucky thinks as he walks home from the art store. The air is still thick with humidity and the sun is hanging low in the sky, threatening to dip below the horizon at any moment. The colours are so rich, and Bucky wishes he had to skills to capture them with paints and pigments. He takes a picture on his phone, and then decides that tonight is going to be a Chinese takeout kind of night. He backtracks a few stores to the Chinese place that’s only a few stores down from the art shop, figuring he’ll place his order and just wait there until it’s ready. He places his order and parks his ass on a little bench just inside the door to wait his 20 minutes. He passes the time by texting one of his friends memes of the frog variety. 

His waiting is almost over when the door opens and hits Bucky’s knee none too gently. He jumps up quickly to protest, when he sees that the perpetrator is none other than Steve G. Rogers. Bucky briefly realizes he doesn’t know what the ‘G’ stands for, before filing that thought away for later contemplation.

“Hey, uh, sorry about that,” Steve gestures vaguely at the door that’s just closed behind him.

“Oh, yeah, no worries,” Bucky says easily, despite the fact that his knee is still smarting from its brief but aggressive acquaintance with the door. “Steve, right?” Bucky hopes he sounds nonchalant and casual, but he’s pretty sure he just sounds like he’s trying too hard.

“Yeah,” Steve says with a nod, “Bucky from the art store.”

“Guilty as charged,” Bucky replies, letting his mouth curl into a smirk. Steve narrows his eyes at him, squinting like he’s trying to make out some minute detail, and suddenly Bucky feels out of place. He’s not really sure why, but he feels a little offset.

“Order for Barnes?” A bored voice calls, and Bucky turns around so quickly that he almost falls over.

“Oh yeah, that’s me,” Bucky says, sounding more than a tad flustered. He strides over to take the brown bag that already has grease sinking through and staining the paper. “Catch ya later, Steve.”

“Later, Bucky,” Steve says, smiling a little apologetically as he looks at the doors again. Bucky speeds his way through the exit, a little thankful for the out, and a little sad that his conversation with Steve has come to an end. The guy really is adorable, and he seems kind, if rather clumsy. Bucky shakes himself a little as he walks himself back to his and Becka’s apartment. He was not in a habit of letting himself develop crushes on his patrons, and certainly not scrawny(adorable), office-job-having(hardworking), award-winning(talented; so very talented) ones.

Fuck. He was so far gone on this guy. 

****

The next few weeks for Steve are a rush of conference calls, interviews (both in person and over the phone) and photoshoots, mixed in with the regular stresses of his secretarial job. Everything has begun to blend together, and he’s feeling a little blurry around the edges. He misses the feel of paint under his nails and the satisfaction of finally figuring out how a piece is going to pan out. He misses creating. Ironically, his rise to semi-fame in the art world had taken away all the time he had left to actually make art.

It almost made Steve wish he hadn’t submitted the painting after all. _Almost_. Steve wasn’t going to lie; the money prize had been very, very much appreciated in helping pad out his savings account and start his retirement fund. He’s grateful, he really is, it just feels like there’s less time for him to do Steve-things now that he had to do S.G. Rogers-things. Steve supposes this is how all adults feel, and it’s just taken this long to catch up with him, though at 24 he’s hardly very old. Or really even very adult.

When the initial rush of obligations is over, Steve is indescribably happy to find himself sitting in front of a fresh canvas with his paints in front of him, questioning which mug is his paint water and which is his now room-temperature tea. After weeks of suits and trendy outfits that bordered on the edge of hipster-dom, it was nice to be able to relax in his painting clothes again. It was good to return to normal. And as was typical for Steve, in the midst of his new project, he ran out of something. Usually it wasn’t essential; something like mixing medium or gesso that Steve could try to stumble along without, despite how much he shouldn’t, but in this case it was necessary. In this case it was, well, white paint. 

Steve doesn’t think he will ever remember to buy the things he needs until he’s up to his elbows in a new project and suddenly requires it. It’s damn inconvenient but he doesn’t foresee ever changing his ways and learning the lesson of organization.

White paint. 

Steve scoffs at himself and pulls himself out of the weird sitting/kneeling/squatting position he’s contorted himself into in front of his canvas. His legs are a bit sore and stretches before picking through the pockets on the suit he’d shucked off after coming home from work, looking for his wallet. Honestly, the temptation to just get shitty acrylic paint from the dollar store that was just down the street was almost too strong to resist. Steve knows he’d live to regret it though; the poor quality has more than once made him want to tear his hair out. 

Which means he has to walk down to Bucky’s ar- the art store, and Steve would rather never take his allergy medicine again than do that. He’s positive he made a huge fool of himself last time he was there; and oh god, he’d hit Bucky with a door last time he’d seen him. He probably thinks Steve is a ridiculous excuse for a human; and Bucky without fail always managed to make him really flustered. Steve isn’t able to place his finger on just why, and that made him even more flustered. He is going to make an ass of himself again, he just knows it. With a sigh, Steve heads out of the apartment, dragging his feet a little on the threadbare carpet in the halls of his building.

The streetlights are just turning on as Steve slips inside the front door of the shop. He beelines for the back of the store where the acrylic paint is, and then rounds back to the magazine racks and looks through the set of new arrivals. He picks up two copies of one that mentions his name on the front cover, figuring he’ll send one to Peggy and keep the other for himself. He and Peggy are on good enough terms that it won’t be weird. Sometimes they still call each other and catch up. They were friends first, and Steve really appreciates that they’ve gone back to friends again, despite the trainwreck that their relationship had been.

Steve is still caught on this thought as he places his items down on the counter and reaches in the pocket of his paint splattered sweats for his wallet.

“Evening, Steve.” Steve lifts his head a little faster than is warranted, and his eyes meet Bucky’s. Just like at the Chinese restaurant weeks before, Steve is entranced by how handsome Bucky is when he has a smirk on his face. He squints for second, locking all the details into his mind to sketch out later before straightening his face out into a smile.

“Hey,” Steve says, attempting a cool nod. Any cool vibes he’s been trying to give off are immediately shattered when Bucky looks down at Steve’s purchases and raises a singular eyebrow. 

“One of them is for my friend,” Steve mumbles, finally managing to fish his wallet out of his pocket.

“Sure it is, pal,” Bucky says knowingly with a wink that Steve almost doesn’t catch. Steve’s ears instantly turn pink, but Bucky has already turned away to scan the items, and Steve thanks his spangled stars for it. 

“There’s some nice pictures of you and your studio in it,” Bucky says with a nod to the magazine in his hand, “Gotta say I”m a little hurt that you didn’t come here for pictures.” Bucky smiles afterwards, and the brief hesitation in if he was joking or not is resolved.

“Next time, pal,” Steve says with a chuckle and a grin.

“That’s what they all say,” Bucky says, pouting and then laughing. “Your total is 47 dollars and 13 cents.”

Steve is already out the door on his way back to his crappy little Brooklyn apartment before he’s realized how pleasant the exchange had been. He’d hardly even been flustered… and had Bucky been flirting with him? Steve flushes at the idea. No, no; he definitely hadn’t been. Bucky is most likely straight, Steve reminds himself. He has zero chance there. Absolutely zero. 

***

“You’re telling me you’re in _like-like_ with one of the employees at your local art store?” Steve’s friend, Nat, remarks dryly. They'd met in high school, and despite the fact that Natasha could probably kill him with her pinky, they’d been instant friends since then. Their very differing jobs- Nat works as a translator for some important engineering company, Star Industries or something like that, and Steve as a secretary in a government office downtown- made it hard to actually meet up, so when they did it was for hours at a time over expensive coffee.

“Yes, because we’re in junior high again, Nat,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes. He leans in to take a sip of his coffee and then frowns in annoyance as his glasses fog up.

“Whatever,” Nat says with an eyeroll of her own, “What’s he like?”

“He’s really handsome and charming,” Steve sighs, “And I don’t think he likes me very much. Besides; I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Nat says flatly. “He likes you enough to be charming; I think that’s a hint, Steve.” Steve takes a sip of his coffee and makes a noncommittal noise. “What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and is completely bewildered when Natasha starts laughing. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Because Bucky has been texting me for the past three months about this short blonde guy who he was all hung up on, who he was positive wasn’t interested in him,” Natasha says, grinning like a cheshire cat. “So yeah, I think he probably likes you, and he’s definitely not straight.”

Steve sets his mug of coffee down on the table with a soft click. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Nat replies, still grinning, “Oh.”


	4. Dimensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy has it been a long time... yikes

Bucky’s never seen such a quiet subway car before. Naturally, there’s some disordered noises from the ten or so people also in the car, but it’s almost obnoxiously silent, especially for New York. It’s freaking Bucky out, truth be told. Though, that could just be the leftover anxieties from Becka’s doctor appointment. Bucky always goes with her, and she always makes him sit outside, and tells him the news when the appointment is over. It doesn't do much to ease his worries, but he knows it makes her much more comfortable to tell him everything herself. She seems especially tired this time, but she said everything was fine, and Becka never lies to him. That was one of their agreements; no bullshit, and no Top 40’s Pop Music past nine o’clock on weeknights. 

“So,” Becka says as she adjusts the beanie on her mostly bare head, “has that cutie been in the store since you told me about him?” Yeah, Becka definitely looks tired, but clearly not too exhausted to give Bucky crap about Steve, he thinks with a slight sigh. Becka could be in her grave, and she’d probably manage to give Bucky shit about his love life, or lack there of, as she oh-so lovingly pointed out.

“See, this is why I never talk about boys with you,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes, “You’re insufferable, Becks.”

“I know,” She says with a self-satisfied smile, “But that doesn’t answer my question.” Bucky looks skyward and sends up a silent prayer to whatever god may be listening to grant him patience. He briefly wonders if there’s a patron saint for brothers with incorrigible sisters, and sends a prayer that way, too

“Yes, Becka, he has been in once or twice.” It’s been _months_ of course he would have been in a few times. It would be ludicrous to assume he wouldn't.

“Oooh. Have you asked him out yet?” Becka winks. Bucky momentarily considers leaving her to fend for herself on the subway, and getting off a few stops early. 

“No, I haven’t,” Bucky says through his teeth. Becka laughs at him, pleased with herself for rattling him so thoroughly, and then loses her balance as the train comes to a stop. Bucky catches her arm before she can fall, and feels more than a little alarmed when he sees how pale she is as she straightens back up. Becka smirks, pats Bucky’s arm and says, “Yet.” Bucky can’t help but to roll his eyes as the doors close and the train pulls out of the station, his concerns momentarily forgotten.

The subway car is louder now with the influx of people, and Bucky shakes his head once to clear it as Becka makes yet another comment about how he should ask out Steve for coffee.

****

The whole Barnes apartment has the delicate lingering aroma of spaghettios, and the dishes are piled in the sink, but neither Bucky nor Becka have made an effort to alter that. Neither of them have any excuse for it; Bucky’s just wasting time really, looking at pictures of dogs wearing hats on the internet while Becka watches some reality television show that’s most likely (most definitely) scripted. Bucky opens his mouth to make a comment about some happenstance on the show when his phone rings, and interrupts his thought.

“Hey, Natasha,” He says, very conscious of how relieved he sounds that she’s the one calling, not his boss asking him to come in for an extra shift. Not that he couldn’t use the extra hours; rent isn’t going to pay itself. He doesn’t have the added strain of medical bills this month; just some prescription meds for Becka, but it’s hard. God knows it’s hard, but it’s been harder. He’ll make do. He’s considering picking up a second job, not that he’s said anything about it to Becka yet. He already knows how she feels about him having to work so much and he doesn’t want her to worry any more than she already does.

“I have some top secret information, Barnes,” Nat says in lieu of a hello. 

“Keep talking,” Bucky says, standing up from the couch to take the call into his room. Becka gives him a curious look before turning back to her show. There’s some drama involving an earring and an ocean, or something, and Bucky rolls his eyes at it as he opens his door. 

“You remember texting me for, oh, about three or four months about this one guy who comes into your work every now and then?” Nat says, the edge to her voice so sharp it could probably be used as weapon. Bucky thinks it probably has been, and has a sneaking suspicion that it is, in fact, being used as such right now.

“I recall something of that sort,” Bucky says coolly, regretting the moment of weakness that had lead to him ranting to Nat about his infatuation for Steve. Or moments, really. It had happened a few times more than he cares to admit to. He closes the door to his room and sits on the edge of his bed, still unsure about where exactly this conversation is going.

“Glad to hear it,” Natasha says dryly. “You’ll also recall that you never used a name, I hope.”

“Get to the point, Natasha.” The spaghettio scent has permeated into his room, despite the closed door, and he wrinkles his nose at it.

“I figured out his name, and he’s my best friend from high school, you idiot,” Natasha says in irritation, though a certain intonation of fondness is clear.

“Wait; what?” Bucky asks, suddenly very happy for both his decision to bring this phone call out of Becka’s earshot and his choice to sit down. Bucky had met Nat during the one semester of college he’d been able to take, before Becka had gotten sick and he’d had to drop out to take care of her. They’d been in a course on Russian History, and barely five minutes into the class Nat had interrupted the professor to correct her. And continued to do so pretty much every five minutes. The poor woman had looked like she was going to cry by the end of the 70 minute class. Naturally, it hadn’t taken a very long time for Bucky and Nat to become friends. He would’ve thought that Steve would have been in the post-Bucky friendship era, because he’d never heard her mention him before.

“Steve Rogers,” Natasha says slowly, “My best friend for 8 years. Artist, blonde, small, kind of resembles a ragdoll in a suit.”

“Yes, yes,” Bucky says, attempting to stifle his sarcasm and not succeeding in any sense of the term, “I’m familiar with who he is.”

“Well, he-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bucky interrupts, suspicion leaking into his voice, “why are you telling me this? This is the kind of information you hold onto and wait till I’m drunk at one of your parties and then introduce us so you can have a laugh.”

“I would never do that to you!”

“You’ve done that twice!” Bucky could not believe that Natasha had the nerve to sound affronted, and was sorely tempted to say so. 

“They were both assholes anyway, it was fine,” Nat says blasély, and Bucky knows that if they were having this conversation in person there would have been a hair flip at this exact moment.

“Fine? Natasha, it was not fi-,” Bucky mutters hotly.

“Anyway,” Natasha cuts over him and Bucky sighs loudly to voice his displeasure at being interrupted. “I was just calling to let you know that he’s going to be at a party at my house next weekend if you’re available.”

“I knew it!” Bucky crows.

“Yeah, whatever,” Natasha says, and Bucky can practically hear the frown he knows she has. “At least you have a heads up this time, Barnes. Be thankful.” Bucky makes a kissing noise into the receiver of his phone, even though he knows Nat has already hung up. She never said goodbye or hello during phone calls, and Bucky always thought it was probably part of the mysterious persona she’d built for herself. Thank god for caller ID. 

Bucky’s so preoccupied with thinking about Natasha’s lack of telephone etiquette that it takes him a good five minutes before he’s realized that Nat hadn’t actually told him _how_ she’d gotten a hold of this information. He’s tempted to call her back to ask, but he’s more than fairly positive that she wouldn’t pick up. He wasn’t sure why she’d left that bit of the information out; but he knew it hadn’t been an accident, and it probably wasn’t due to the mysteriousness she insisted in enshrouding herself in.


	5. Deep Wilderness Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitches. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

Steve isn’t really sure how Nat manages to rope him into her party. He knows that there was a phone call and, he assumes, witchcraft of some sort. The slippery and undetectable kind that Nat excels at. The minor fact that she has Steve wrapped around her finger so tight it was surprising she still had circulation was also probably a part of it.

So there he is, sitting in a chair with a new haircut and an old sweater that looked a gust of wind away from unravelling while a party swirls around him. There’s a craft beer in his hand, his third drink of the night, that he’s sipping between scraps of conversation, and it is probably the most unpleasant thing he has ever tasted. The party is in full swing, the sounds of glasses clinking and laughter filling the quiet corner Steve has sequestered himself in. He’s recognized a few people from other parties Nat has invited him too, but more people have recognized him. He hadn’t been expecting that, isn’t prepared to chat about the _art world_ at a party where his sole intention had been to get wholly and entirely sloshed. It had been much too overwhelming and the rising levels of anxiety had forced him to scurry away to the isolated chair he was currently sitting in. He’s been sitting by himself for a while and is feeling a little calmer, or at least more contained, and he regards the bottle in his hand with a look of contempt before taking another swig. 

“Steve! There you are!” Steve looks up in time to see a hand reach down and grab his wrist, yanking him up and out of his seat, the other person not recognizable. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s just spilled the worst beer known to man on Nat’s carpet before he’s catapulted into the kitchen just a few steps from his hide away. Nat’s head of vibrant red hair disappears into the crowded room and Steve has a hunch on just exactly who did the wrist-grabbing. He looks around the room, trying to figure out why she unceremoniously shoved him into the room without an explanation. It isn’t until he’s set the now-empty beer bottle on the counter by a pile of empty cans and turns around to leave that he gets his answer. The face that has pages dedicated to it in Steve’s sketchbooks, the blue eyes that Steve could never quite get right, no matter how much paint he mixed. Bucky Barnes. 

Steve stops, startled, despite himself. He should’ve known Nat was up to something. She’d been very quiet since their coffee date, and then the party invitation came from out of the blue. Not that Nat hasn’t invited him to parties before, and not that he hasn’t gone to them, but it’s the first one in a long time because she knows he doesn’t really enjoy them. And after almost two months of radio silence, he should’ve been more suspicious. Steve mentally kicks himself, then smiles brilliantly.

“Hey Bucky! I didn’t know you’d be here,” He says brightly, feeling pleasantly buzzed now that he’s no longer suffering through his beer.. Bucky looks bewildered momentarily, an expression Steve tucks away for later sketchbook pages, before his face clears.

“Really? Nat told me you were gonna be here, actually,” Buck says, then flushes a little. That confirms it; Nat is definitely up to something. Steve makes a note to interrogate her about it later, when and if he can find her. 

“She didn’t say anything to me,” Steve says with a slight frown as he looks through the crowd to find Nat. After a moment of searching to no avail, Steve gives up, and turns a smile at Bucky. It’s just so _nice_ to see a familiar, if only somewhat friendly face who he can count on not to ask the same stupid questions about his _career_ , or so he tells himself. “She did tell me you guys were friends though. Nat, I mean. It’s a small world, huh?” Bucky makes a noncommittal sound, then looks at Steve. Really looks at him with his full attention, and Steve thinks _Whoa_ , before Bucky’s mouth twists into a smirk. Steve’s _Whoa_ becomes a string of unintelligible babble, and he almost doesn’t hear Bucky when he speaks.

“Steve,” Bucky says in a matter-of-fact tone as he surveys both Steve and his outfit. It’s the first time he’s seen him in an outfit that isn’t a suit or paint splattered beyond recognition, “you dress like a gay hipster dad.”

“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Steve shrugs, then brushes a hand self consciously over his new haircut. He had thought that maybe it was a little too edgy for him, but his hairdresser had assured him it was ‘very on trend’, and as a newly nationwide renowned artist he could risk being on the far side of edgy. Steve kind of thinks it looks like an underfed mushroom-cut though. Bucky flushes a little, then looks down rather quickly.

“Steve- are you a dad?” He asks, a little hesitant.

“What? No!” Steve splutters, then falls into a fit of laughter. Bucky’s flush creeps down to his neck and he looks incredibly awkward, so Steve contains himself and asks, “Why would you think I was a dad? I’m only 24! I can barely look after myself! I had a cactus once and it died. I killed a cactus, Bucky. I wasn’t even aware that’s something a person could _do_ ”

“It seemed more likely than the other options?” Bucky says it like a question but Steve has a sneaking suspicion he means it as a statement.

“The other options?” Steve says, then realizes, “Oh, you meant the gay thing. I mean, I’m bi so I think I slide in on a technicality? More gay than the average Joe, anyway..” He says it with a practiced casualness, the same way he did when a stranger on the subway asked if the flowers were for his girlfriend, or when his old roommate had asked him to not have girls over on weeknights. It’s the act of having to repeat oneself so many times the words are worn away into smoothness. 

Bucky laughs something between a chuckle and a giggle, and the strangeness of the moment is over.

“So, enjoying the party?” Bucky asks, and leans back against the kitchen counter, arms braced on either side of himself. There’s a crash in another room and Steve flinches reflexively before answering. 

“It’s alright. Are you?”

“It’s more fun than being at the art store,” Bucky says with a shrug that suggests that anything short of having pins stuck in his eyes would be preferable to the art store.. Steve pretends to look horrified.

“Oh no; you can’t mean that,” he contradicts,” That art store is the best. You guys have everything. It’s like Mary Poppin’s purse or something.”

“You’re just saying that because your face is plastered all over half the magazines and your name is on the rest,” Bucky teases with a wink.

“That so? Maybe I’ll have to come by and do a signing for you guys,” Steve grins, “Can’t forget my roots, and all that.”

“Didn’t realize little weeds like you could even grow roots,” Bucky says with a shiteating grin, real pleased with himself. Steve cackles so hard he almost throws himself into an asthma attack. Bantering with Bucky is so comfortable that Steve almost forgets that he knows almost nothing about the guy.

“That’s just cold, Bucky,” Steve says with a shake of his head, still laughing a little. Bucky grins triumphantly at having got the last word. Steve’s having a silly thought about wanting to make Bucky smile like that every time he sees him, and staring at him like a goon when there’s yet another crash in the next room. This one is louder than the last, and it sounds vaguely ceramic and all over like bad news. Steve and Bucky both catch a glimpse of Nat stalking away into the crowd like a woman on a mission.

“Hey, do you want to get of here?” Bucky asks abruptly, eyes still trained on where Nat has disappeared off to.

“Didn’t you just get here?” Steve asks, a little confused.

“Yeah, but I think that’s going to get ugly,” he says and nods to the other room, which has gone very quiet all of a sudden. “And this crowd is all too cultured and smart for the likes of me.” Bucky wrinkles his nose as he adds this, and says _‘cultured and smart’_ like he means _‘dry and boring’_. Steve is inclined to agree. He’s not sure where Nat dragged this group up from but he wouldn’t mind if he never saw them again. Steve bites his lip, leaning towards leaving.

“Come on; I know this place that has the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted. It’s all retro and whatever,” Bucky says, and that’s the cincher. Steven G. Rogers is nothing if not a pancake aficionado. 

“Okay, let’s go get pancakes,” Steve says. Bucky gives him a full-wattage smile, and Steve grins back.

***

Bucky prides himself on being a real smooth guy, but sitting in the cab on the way to Fran’s 24 Hour Diner he is feeling anything but slick. He’s just gone and whisked a virtually complete stranger, albeit an adorable one, away from a party to go to get pancakes like a _weirdo_. God, he can hear Becka laughing already. He squirms the whole ride there, squirms while he pays the driver, and is completely prepared to squirm for the rest of the evening. What he isn’t prepared for Steve looking at Fran’s like he’s a kid at Disneyland. The look of awe on his face is ridiculously endearing as he takes in the neon signs flickering in the windows of the old-timey joint.

Bucky had discovered Fran’s late one night when he’d gotten tired of pacing up and down the hospital halls and had needed some fresh air. He’d felt like he was hallucinating when he’d first found it; a fluorescent beacon on a street of dark stores and offices. The feeling had only intensified when he’d entered it. It still lingers.

The ring of the bell over the door pulls him back and he looks over at Steve, who’s still grinning and taking in the black-and-white checkered floor and 50’s style feel of the place.

“Man,” Steve says as they seat themselves in a booth. His buzz had fizzled out on the cab ride, but that was in no way impacting the amount of joy he was getting out of the almost cartoonish restaurant he found himself in. “I didn’t realize these kind of places even existed? It’s like a movie set or something.”

“I know right?” Bucky grins, the amount of pride in his voice as if he were the one who owned the place, “I used to come here all the time. It’s the best 24 hour place in the whole city.”

“That’s quite a claim, Mr..” Steve trails off as he realizes he doesn’t actually _know_ Bucky’s last name.

“Barnes,” Bucky supplies quickly.

“That’s quite a claim, Mr. Barnes,” Steve repeats, and picks up the plastic-coated menu in front of him to flip through. “A claim that I plan to put to the test.” Bucky laughs once in surprise and delight.

Steve takes his good old time reading through every item on the menu before ordering blueberry pancakes and a rootbeer float. Bucky orders the same thing, more for ease than anything else, and throws a wink at the waitress, an elderly woman named Gladys who smiles and hits him in the arm with her notebook.

“You better watch yourself, James,” She teases, brandishing her pen. “One day I might think you’re serious.”

“I sure hope so,” Bucky says with an impish smile. Gladys laughs and shakes her pen at him once again before walking over to the kitchen to put in their order.

“You must come here all the time, huh,” Steve says with a nod towards Gladys.

“Oh, yeah. Gladys and I go way back. The third time I was here, I was more than a little tipsy and she threatened to ‘beat my ass and then call my mama’ because I was a hot mess,” Bucky laughs. “We’ve made up since then; I bought her some flowers and all was forgiven. She gives me free pancakes sometimes, now.”

“I wish the Chinese place by your store would do that for me. I’m a regular there and they _still_ always forget my fried rice,” Steve says with a shake of his head. While they chat, a few more people come in, in varying states of sobriety, and the place livens up a little. It isn’t long until Gladys comes back balancing their orders carefully.

“Holler if you boys need anything,” she says as she sets down their food and then walks over to check on one of the other customers. They fall onto their food like vultures who haven’t eaten in months.

“Oh my god, these are the best pancakes I have ever tasted,” Steve says, eyes wide as he stares down at his plate.

“I did warn you,” Bucky says, expertly drizzling pancake syrup on top of his own plate, which has been supplemented by at least three pancakes he did not order and will not be paying for. 

“You did, and like a fool, I did not believe,” Steve sighs.

“So,” Bucky says around a mouthful of pancake, then pauses to swallow it before continuing. “What the weirdest thing that’s happened to you since you got famous. Or art world famous. Whatever.”

“Oh man, okay. So there was this one interview I did for an online magazine. And I mentioned the whole bi thing in passing to the interviewer, no big deal, right? Except when they published the article the headline was _Steve Rogers, Bisexual Icon _”.” Buck starts laughing and Steve shushes him. “No, no. It gets better. Like ten minutes after I got to Nat’s tonight, this one guy she works with who I’ve met a couple of times, Tony, introduced me to another guy and said, ‘Have you met Steve? He’s a bisexual icon’.”__

__“God, that’s so weird; Who even does that?” Bucky says with a shake of his head, unable to keep himself from laughing even as he speaks. Steve shrugs in a _what can ya do?_ kind of way. _ _

__“Oh my god,” Bucky says dramatically, like he’s just had a major realization. “I’m eating pancakes with a bisexual icon. Can I have your autograph?” He laughs and hold out his syrup stained napkin and a pen that he’s pulled out of seemingly nowhere._ _

__Steve looks at the pen and napkin for a half second before he impulsively says, “No, but you can have my number,” and takes the pen out of Bucky’s surprised hand and scrawls his cell phone number on the napkin, doing his best to avoid the syrup smears._ _

__Bucky blinks at him in what almost looks like awe, for a moment, and then smirks._ _

__“God _damn_ Rogers. That was smooth.”_ _

__Steve grins in a way that is both serene and self-satisfied._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can catch me on tumblr over [here](https://elongated-pasta.tumblr.com/)


End file.
